


Everything I Do, I Do it for You

by AmunetMana



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Coercion, Dehumanization, Emotional Manipulation, Execution, Forced Feminization, Gen, Lingerie, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 13:32:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana
Summary: Everything Rumlow does, he does for HYDRA. Even when he cannot even begin to comprehend the missions he is set to fulfil.





	Everything I Do, I Do it for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGoldenAppleofAsgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard/gifts).



> Luna and I have fun conversations.

It wasn’t unusual for Rumlow to be called to Secretary Pierce’s office. Between legitimate SHIELD work and their more important work in the shadows, they saw plenty of each other in and out of the office. Rumlow did pause, however, when he was called in and Pierce was stood chatting with an unfamiliar man. Rumlow thought he knew just about everyone connected to HYDRA and SHIELD both, and unfamiliar faces always put him on edge. The man didn’t look anything like an agent for either – he was all clean lines, in a suit as sharp as Pierce’s, and his gaze was aloof and disinterested in Rumlow, despite it being fixed firmly on the agent.

 

Rumlow’s gaze flicked between the man and Pierce, and Pierce nodded his head towards him in polite acknowledgment.

 

“Commander,” He greeted, smiling politely. He indicated towards the man, “this in an associate of mine; he’s here to take care of some things for me. You’ll need to do as he says.” Rumlow hesitated before nodding, turning his gaze to the man, who was still watching him with the same dismissive look.

 

“Sir,” Rumlow greeted him cautiously, and Pierce’s smile seemed to widen by a millimetre before he moved back towards his desk. The man gave a flickering, hollow smile, before gesturing for Rumlow to step forward.

 

“Mr Rumlow,” he said tersely. “If you would strip for me.”

 

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a request. Rumlow’s eyes turned to Pierce, as he leant back against his desk casually. Pierce tilted his head, and he didn’t need to speak again for Rumlow to hear the words in his head – _you’ll need to do as he says_. That hadn’t been a request either. Slowly, Rumlow raised his hands, and began tugging off his gear slowly. Too slowly, apparently, as the man made a noise in the back of his throat, and Rumlow began to pick up his pace.

 

 _He was being ridiculous_ , he thought, almost entirely supressing the hesitation before he pushed down his pants, folding them quickly to sit with the rest of his discarded clothes. As weird as it felt, he didn’t really feel like it would go down well if he just left his things strewn all over the floor of Pierce’s shiny office. He was left in just his underwear, and squared his shoulders, refusing to let it bother him. The man’s gaze dropped down, and he made another sound at the back of his throat.

 

“I said _strip_ , Mr Rumlow.”

 

Rumlow’s eyes snapped to the man, as he dropped his stance, mouth falling open.

 

“Is –” Rumlow floundered, trying to justify his hesitation, both to the man and to Secretary Pierce, who was watching him with that same amiable expression as before. “Is this a medical of some kind, sir? I’ve been attending all the regular check-ups, and –”

 

“This man isn’t a doctor,” Pierce said mildly, cutting across Rumlow, “and I know you know how to follow orders, Commander.” Pierced crossed his legs at the ankle and gave another smile. Wordlessly, Rumlow hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband of his boxers, and pushed them down over his hips, pulling them free to discard with everything else. Rumlow straightened, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. He was aware, suddenly, of the windows that served for walls in Pierce’s office. They were far too high for anyone to see, but Rumlow still felt an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. _It was all for something_ , Rumlow told himself. _Pierce wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for something important_. Rumlow had done more with less information before.

 

Now that Rumlow was fully bare, the man stepped forward, and began to cast his eyes critically over the Commander’s body. Rumlow tried to keep himself perfectly still, keeping his eyes out on the horizon. The man’s fingers brushed, barely, over Rumlow’s arm and Rumlow suppressed the flinch violently. But the touch was gone almost as soon as it was there, and pressed again to his spine, then once more, at his side. There, the fingers lingered, and Rumlow realised the man was picking at an old scar of his. He glanced at Pierce, and realised Pierce’s gaze was passing just over his shoulder, to meet the eyes of the man behind him.

 

Pierce’s eyebrows were slightly raised, before he gave a little shrug of his shoulders, and the man moved on. Skated over Rumlow’s shoulders, examined his chest. His face was right beside Rumlow’s, and still Rumlow felt as though to the man, he just didn’t exist. Not as a person. That was fine. He didn’t have to be a person to serve HYDRA. The Asset hadn’t been a person in over ninety years and he was the best damn weapon HYDRA had.

 

Still. Rumlow couldn’t help but want to ask Pierce what this was all for.

 

Finally, the man stepped back, casting his eyes once more up and down Rumlow’s body.

 

“I understand your interest. There is potential there,” the man said to Pierce, who had satisfaction in his eyes. “There are, of course, always improvements to be made.”

 

“Of course,” Pierce agreed readily, and a cold like the dump of ice down his back crept over Rumlow. He thought of the glint of the Asset’s arm. “You’re done now,” Pierce said, and it took Rumlow a minute to realise he was being spoken to. By the time he’d caught on, broken from the implications clouding over his mind, it was as though he didn’t exist again, and the men were talking together, discussing business as though Rumlow wasn’t even there. Rumlow took a step back, then another, his legs shaking before he bent to grab his things and retract to the door. He pulled on his gear as fast as he could, burning embarrassment overtaking the fear.

 

By the time he left Pierce’s office, he was dressed but rumpled, and all he wanted to do was to leave for his rarely-used apartment and forget about the world – _both_ worlds – and try to get over himself and his apparent inability to do the most basic shit for Pierce. _Pierce wouldn’t ask if there wasn’t a good reason_ , he told himself furiously. Rumlow was _better_ than to get worked up over being goddamn naked. He was a _soldier_. It was hardly a new experience being naked around other men; embarrassment over it was burnt out of you far earlier on than this.

 

They had been soldiers, though.

 

Other agents.

 

Pierce was _far_ from another agent.

 

Mouth pressed into a hard line, Rumlow stormed out towards the exit of the Triskelion, fully intent on escaping before anyone had a chance to catch him for a mission debriefing.

 

~

 

Pierce seemed to show a closer interest in him, after that. Rumlow still couldn’t pinpoint the reasons; it wasn’t even that they talked any more than usual. Pierce added no personal questions to their exchanges – Rumlow gave mission reports, Pierce told him what to do next. No pleasantries, only the mission. But there was something, Rumlow thought. Something in the way Pierce’s eyes lingered, the way his mouth curved just a little more. Pierce looked at him, Rumlow realised, and suddenly it was like he was naked in his office all over again. He bit the inside of his lip, and forced his gaze away from Pierce, staring straight ahead, over his head. Thought of that horizon.

 

No one even mentioned a new mission to him. Didn’t mention the Asset, didn’t talk about any new plans for weapons, or – or _enhancements_ – and after a few days, Rumlow even came close to supressing the memories just enough that they didn’t plague him even when he wasn’t faced with Pierce directly. Then, over a week later, Rumlow received a phone call to his home, early in the morning before he could even head to the Triskelion for work.

 

“Rumlow,” Pierce greeted him from the other end of the line, and Rumlow almost dropped the phone. Couldn’t help but notice the use of his name in place of his title. He’d never even heard it come from Pierces mouth; he had always been _Commander_. “You’re finishing early today. You’re required for a function I’m attending this evening; I’ll send along the details.”

 

“Sir?” Rumlow couldn’t help but press, and he wondered when he got so bad at obeying orders without question. He didn’t even question _Cap_ this much. But Pierce laughted at the end of the line, and the words that followed were laced with indulgence.

 

“I’m hosting a dinner of sorts, with many people of great interest and…worth, to our cause,” Pierce explained, and Rumlow made a noise of understanding.

 

“Am I there as security?” Rumlow asked, thinking over the situation. “Will I be coordinating with your personal team?” The details would include building plans and profiles, Rumlow thought. Although half a day was hardly a long time to fully prepare for being a part of that kind of security – especially not when it sounded like there were going to be a lot of big players there along with Pierce.

 

“You won’t be security,” Pierce dismissed his question easily. “You’ll be in a different capacity. The details will be sent to you. Make sure you arrive promptly, Rumlow. Tonight is an important event.”

 

And he hung up the phone, leaving Rumlow gaping at it.

 

~

 

Sure enough the details were sent to Rumlow promptly – if nothing but an address and time could be considered details. There was no call for tactical gear, no details on the building or even on the guest list. Rumlow was going in blind, and whilst if he wasn’t security, those details wouldn’t necessarily be vital for him to have, but if he was not security then what? He hadn’t been told to dress nice, and he wasn’t the type for small talk and fancy dinners in any case. He was a solider, and he was good at it. He didn’t care about being good at anything else but that.

 

Rumlow found the building easily enough – old architecture, until you reached the roof, and then it had been built up with the same sparkling glass windows as Pierce’s office, gleaming in the slowly dying sunlight. It was an imposing structure, and the refracted light was dazzling. Rumlow had been specified to go around to the back entrance – another point against him turning up as some kind of _guest_ – and he rapped his knuckles against the door, wondering what the plan was. A woman opened the door, her hair pulled back into a sleek knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were done up in smoky shadow, and her lips were a dark red that seemed to play off the dark brown of her hair. A thin black kimono hung off her shoulders, belted at the waist, and she stepped aside for Rumlow to enter.

 

She wasn’t chatty, leading him up a short flight of stairs to what looked like what had originally been a room for servants, sparsely furnished. And a jolt passed through Rumlow as the man from Pierce’s office turned around to face him, eyes as cool as they’d been then. And behind him, eyes just as cold, and just as disinterested, the Asset sat on one of the threadbare sofas.

 

But it was not the Asset as Rumlow had ever seen him before. He had been stripped of his tactical gear, as was instead clad in what Rumlow’s brain was slowly processing as _lingerie_. White, silky-satin and edged with lace, the panties clung to the Asset’s hips like they’d been painted there. A garter belt sat higher, encircling the Asset’s narrow waist, and leading down to clip onto sheer, silky white stockings that glimmered under the light. There was nothing in the Asset’s face, no emotions, no – no _embarrassment_ , not even any disgust or confusion. He didn’t even have the strange, sad look in his eyes he sometimes wore after missions, as though the things he did had any kind of impact on him. Rumlow didn’t even realise he’d been staring at the Asset until the man from Pierce’s office was drawing him back to the present with a clearing of his throat.

 

A package was being offered to him, and Rumlow stared, and felt his brain stutter and come to a stop.

 

“No,” he said, and the man made a noise behind his teeth.

 

“I was told you were good at following orders, Mr Rumlow,” he said. Rumlow kept staring.

 

“No. _No_. There must be – there’s some kind of mistake, I’m not – I _don’t_ – ”

 

“As I understand it, you do what Mr Pierce tells you to do,” the man said simply, and finally Rumlow dragged his eyes up to meet his. “and this, Mr Rumlow, is what Mr Pierce is _telling you to do_.”

 

And the small package was in Rumlow’s hands, and the woman from before had her hands on his arms, and was pulling him out of the room, and along towards another. His stumbling didn’t deter her, and they were soon inside a small bathroom. Then, for the third time, Rumlow received the order.

 

“Strip.”

 

He didn’t. He stood and stared at the woman. If the man in the other room had to ask twice in front of Pierce, this woman sure as hell had to ask twice as well. Except this woman wasn’t so patient, it seemed.

 

“You are here at the orders of Secretary Pierce. I am here to wash you and dress you and ensure that you are _presentable_. If you do not do as you are told, I will not hesitate to cut your clothes from you, and at the end of the evening all you will have to go home in will be what I think you well know is inside that package.” Rumlow stared at her and she stared back, meeting his gaze with hard eyes. There was no acknowledgement of the insanity of the situation. No realisation, no concern or even a will to care about what was happening.

 

 _For HYDRA_ , Rumlow told himself, and slowly shook off his jacket.

 

 _But what purpose could this possibly serve for HYDRA_?

 

The preparations, as it transpired, included the painful stripping of Rumlow’s body hair – all of it. He was shaved clean of his stubble, although they left his hair alone. His nails did not escape – at some point a second person had entered – a young man with the same smoky eyes as the woman entered, and wordlessly took up half the tasks Secretary Pierce apparently wanted Rumlow to undergo. They hadn’t even reached the small, unassuming parcel still sat on the tiny counter.

 

Rumlow felt bare. _Too bare_ , even more so than when he’d first stripped down in Pierce’s office. The air hit him differently, his skin rubbed against itself differently. Even his arms were now devoid of hair – his nails shaped into perfect ovals, short as they were, and painted in a black that seemed to suck in light. He couldn’t process the situation, sat passively allowing the two strangers to do whatever they wanted to him without fighting back.

 

Finally the package was unwrapped, and Rumlow was torn away from the mirror he’d been staring into intently, trying to find meaning and order out of a chaos he still couldn’t understand. The boy – because he _looked_ like a boy, also clean shaven, and with stylishly tousled hair – pressed him towards the edge of the bath, sitting him there. He flipped open the parcel, and even though Rumlow had known full well what was inside, it was still a clamp around his organs to watch the boy pull out long, silky black stockings.

 

“Hold still,” the boy warned him, before pulling up Rumlow’s bare, hair-free leg, and slowly rolling the stocking up it. The sensation was unlike any Rumlow had felt before, and he almost squirmed, before using the veritable clamp still tight and heavy in his chest to push down any reaction he might have, physical or otherwise, that would let on to the mortification running through his veins.

 

As the boy finished and moved onto the second stocking, the woman reached for the next item, the scrap of black satin and lace that Rumlow had been the most afraid of. (A HYDRA agent. Afraid of a goddamn _piece of fabric_.) That time Rumlow stood before being told, or forcefully moved, and the woman watched his face as she slowly crouched. But Rumlow just stepped carefully through the holes, and she eased the panties up, settling them on his hips. They fit perfectly – snug as the Asset’s had been, and the woman fiddled with the lace, smoothing it to lie flat. Rumlow couldn’t even get anything from the rub and brush of her hands against his inner thighs as she worked.

 

“How does it fit so well?” Rumlow asked, and somehow his voice had already dried to a hoarse rasp, as he looked down as his legs and hips detachedly – as though they belonged to someone else.

 

“You were measured,” the woman said, looking at him like he was stupid. Perhaps he was, to her. Dumb muscle that had fallen mistakenly and wrongly into this weird freakshow. “The tailor would have visited you.”

 

It clicked. Didn’t make it any less surreal. The man in Pierce’s office, the one down the hall, was the guy who had _made_ this stuff? Had measured him just by looking at him, had _inspected_ him like he was choosing a horse to buy, or a whore to take home for the night.

 

“He didn’t have a tape measure,” Rumlow mumbled, and the woman didn’t even deign to roll her eyes.

 

“He doesn’t need one,” she said, as the boy ran the perfectly fitting garter belt around Rumlow’s waist, and they attached the little clips to the stockings. “he’s far more talented than that.”

 

Talented.

 

 _Talented_.

 

In a sick, abstract way, Rumlow could see it. The lingerie fit seamlessly over his body; just like the Asset, it might as well have been painted onto Rumlow’s body. It fit perfectly – including over his cock. Rumlow had expected, somehow, to be some strange, porny, _trashy_ entertainment, something to be laughed over as cheap underwear barely contained him, not intended for the dimensions of his body. What he was wearing was nothing like that. What he was wearing was designed to flatter – not just to serve functionally, but to look _good_ on him. To look good to others. Rumlow felt like that was somehow worse – at least he understood the crassness of that humiliation.

 

When the pair of them were finally done with him, and Rumlow returned to the main room, someone was carefully spreading lipstick over the Asset’s mouth. His lips were obediently parted, and he looked as unbothered by everything as he had when Rumlow had left. The lipstick was strange, Rumlow realised as the makeup artist pulled away. Pale and shimmery, the Asset looked ethereal and otherworldly. There was something of the same pale shimmer about his eyes, and Rumlow realised that someone had been over the Asset’s entire body with a careful eye. The few scars that the Asset had were smoothed out and invisible – and even though the arm was still on display, someone had found a way to soften its edges. They’d somehow completely erased the ugly mass of scars where the metal met flesh, blending it in as though the metal simply flowed out of the skin of his chest instead.

 

The man was there, and he cast his eyes over Rumlow.

 

“Better,” he said, before clicking his fingers and sending two assistants towards him with their own small chemist’s worth of products that Rumlow couldn’t even identify half of. But in the slowly conditioned manner that had been sinking in over the evening, Rumlow hung limp, and stared at the wall as they powdered and painted his body, smoothing over his scars as though they were never there in the first place. Fingers landed on the uglier scar the man had paused over, and Rumlow shuddered at the memory. He understood now – but even that scar was successfully hidden from sight.

 

They pushed Rumlow onto the sofa, uncomfortably close, for him, to the Asset, who didn’t even look at him. Someone gestured at Rumlow, and he closed his eyes, feeling the sweep of makeup against his face, the press of a soft brush over his eyelids, and the squeeze of fingers on his chin, forcing his mouth open for lipstick to be run along his lips. Rumlow’s eyes opened – _fluttered_ open as they tried to bat away stray powder automatically. He looked down at himself once more, as though he’d be lucky enough to wake from the whole thing like it was just a fever dream all in his head. He looked over to the Asset too, running his eyes over the still figure. They matched, he realised. But for the contrasting colours, their garments were nearly identical, with only their small, individual flares to set them apart.

 

In a way, looking only at the strange creature they’d made of the Asset, Rumlow could almost see the attraction. Looking down, and feeling the rub of his skin, and the brush of silk against him, the sickness rolled back in and the thought was crushed down to dust. The man stepped forward, ushering them to their feet, before looking them up and down. His face had never strayed from its disinterested look, but there was a gleam of what Rumlow wanted to call _satisfaction_ in his eyes as he looked at them. Rumlow wondered if he was getting off on it too.

 

“Send them up,” he said, dismissing them all with the turn of his head and a leisurely pace back to his things, neatly laid out in the back of the room. The Asset began walking without further prompting, and Rumlow followed mostly on instinct, falling into step with the Asset. Rumlow snuck a look at him. He didn’t know why he expected the Asset’s façade to crack. Why he even expected there to be a façade in the first place. Was the Asset’s brain literally so fried that he couldn’t process what was going on? Or was the Asset _used_ to this? Was this just another mission for him?

 

Rumlow had never spent that much thought on the Asset before in his life, not after the initial inevitable rush of curiosity and amazement after seeing him for real that very first time. He wanted to go back to knowing him only as a weapon. Not as someone he could goddamn relate too.

 

They were lead all the way up to the top floor, at first taking the stairs up from the plain, back end of the house, before reaching a shining elevator that moved without any noise as it shot upwards. It was too quiet in there, devoid of any cheap, tinny music, or even any loud breathing. It was like they were strangling themselves into silence, as though anything else might shatter the bizarre hallucinogenic nightmare they’d all found themselves in. Or at least, that was what Rumlow was doing. In the field, Rumlow prided himself on how steady he kept his heartrate – no matter how high the stakes, he never lost his cool no matter what happened. His heart was jackrabbiting now, threatening to pound its way free from his chest.

 

The elevator finally came to a stop, and they were lead out first into a small hallway, and then, into a large, sprawling dining room. They were on the glass floors of the house, and the world outside had been reduced to darkness. Combined with the lights inside the room, not even the glittering skyline that normally sprawled across the horizon could be seen. It was like existing in a void. Stood beside one of the windows, Pierce turned towards them as they entered. Rumlow opened his mouth, taking a more purposeful step forward, only for Pierce to not even acknowledge his presence. Pierce instead walked straight past him, smiling at the woman who had brought them up, apparently more concerned with discussing dinner arrangements than telling Rumlow what was going on, or even _glancing in his direction._

 

 _His doesn’t owe you anything_ , Rumlow told himself insistently, over the racing of his heart. _You’re nothing. You obey orders, no matter what those orders are. It’s all for HYDRA, no matter whether you understand it or not._

 

Rumlow glanced over to the Asset, still staring dead ahead, impervious and unaffected by anything that was happening around them.

 

 _Pierce hadn’t even acknowledged the Asset_ , he reasoned. Rumlow didn’t know if that made it better or worse. Pierce finished his chat with the woman, and clapped his hands together, moving to sit at the head of the table. The woman moved up to Rumlow, pushing him in the arm.

 

“Places,” she told him, the Asset already moving without further prompting, standing behind Pierce, off to the right-hand side. Rumlow made a noise, stumbling at the next push from the woman. It wasn’t even a hard shove. Why the fuck was all of this _so difficult_? There was a noise just as Rumlow began to move, coming to a stop on Pierce’s left, in line with the Asset. Pierce’s head was tilted, ever so slightly, towards Rumlow, and there was the hint of a smile on his face. He had been laughing, Rumlow realised, feeling his face go warm with mortification. Secretary Pierce was _laughing at him_. What the hell was this?

 

“The others will be arriving soon,” the woman said, and Rumlow’s body strained with the sudden tension. He’d _forgotten_ about the fact that this was a dinner. That there would be others there. Possibly people that he knew. Had worked with. Rumlow didn’t know what was happening. Couldn’t fathom the reasoning behind it, couldn’t understand why he’d been chosen, or what his place was supposed to be in all of it. But what the fuck was he supposed to do about it now?

 

Glancing to the side, he saw the Asset had his hands clasped behind his back, not quite standing to attention, but making sure that no part of the work that had been done to them both would go unseen. Rumlow slowly clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his chin up. Old men and women began to file into the room, talking and laughing with each other politely, in the way that all people with nothing better to say did. No one gave Rumlow and the Asset anything more than a passing glance, and shame settled like molten slag in Rumlow’s stomach. He set his eyes straight ahead and pretended he could pick out the horizon beyond the void.

                                  

Rumlow wished hard, prayed _desperately_ for the evening to pass in a blur; to do nothing more than blink, and for it to all be over already. He had no such luck, as he was kept in the excruciating slow present, eyes fixed dead ahead, always. He wondered if he looked as blank as the Asset, or if all the turmoil a loyal agent shouldn’t be feeling, regardless of what was expected of him, was showing all over his face. The conversation was light and false, skating around work, and around HYDRA and their plans for the world as though they were as invisible as Rumlow and the Asset. Or as inconsequential.

 

The food looked exquisite, the cutlery gleamed, and the waiters were as done up as Rumlow and the Asset – except with considerably more clothing on. The woman and boy that had – prepared – Rumlow were among them, except he was invisible even to them now. Everything was too much, in that room. The lights were too bright, even though they’d been dimmed for atmosphere. The clink of metal against china, and the clink of wine glasses rattled through Rumlow’s skull, as lace itched against his skin, and silk rubbed over his crotch. It made his skin crawl.

 

They’d reached dessert, after an eternity, and before the dishes were brought out, Pierce stood, wine glass in hand. He smiled out over his guests, and they smiled back, all reaching for their glasses instinctively.

 

“Thank you, all, for a wonderful evening,” Pierce began, voice firm and warm as he looked out benevolently over the group, who smiled back. “It is always a pleasure to meet with you, and to come together to celebrate not just our achievements, but the bonds we have forged, and the community that we are building still, that shall lead us towards our goals for the future.”

 

Pierce looked around the table, seemingly at each and every member in turn. They all stared back, smiling. Even Rumlow’s gaze tilted towards Pierce, drawn in by his words as everyone always was. Even the Asset responded well to Pierce, they all knew it. Obeyed his commands just a little faster, completed mission reports with just a bit more feeling. There was a running debate as to whether there was any conditioning involved, or trigger words unique to Pierce. It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it worked, and it helped HYDRA achieve its goals.

 

“A community,” Pierce continued, “must be bound together. There must be only one goal for all involved – in order to reach the pinnacles we have set for ourselves, and for the world, there can be no room for selfish behaviour, or the pursuit of individual interests above those of the group.”

 

And without warning, without so much as a flicker from Pierce, the Asset moved in a blur, jumping atop the table and sliding down its length. Not even a second passed, and there was the gleam of metal in the Asset’s hand. By the end of that second the shining utensil, plucked up from the table, had been rammed upwards into a man’s throat. He gurgled, horribly, as blood bubbled from his mouth, the Asset moving back smoothly as a flurry of shocked noises flooded around the table. Rumlow made a rough noise at the back of his throat, unable to hold it back. In that moment, he felt every inch exposed. It wouldn’t have mattered how he was dressed; it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been in a suit like the guests, in his tac gear, or anything else Pierce might ask. Watching the Asset work like that, you felt as though your skin had been ripped back from your bones, and those in turn cracked open until you were entirely exposed and at the Asset’s mercy. And yet, the Asset swung down from the table smoothly and walked, slow and placid, back to Pierce’s side. There wasn’t a speck of blood on him.

 

Every single guest had made an abortive movement at the execution, as though to flee from the table. Those in the chairs beside the man were pushing and shuffling them so they were as far from the body as they could be. No one had known, Rumlow realised, abruptly. No one but Pierce, and the Asset, and _he_ –

 

“To the bonds we forge _together_ ,” Pierce said, lifting his glass as though nothing had happened. “To loyalty.”

 

And Rumlow watched as they all toasted.

 

~

 

No one came to move the body. Dessert was brought out, and there was no sign from any of the servers that indicated surprise – or a reaction of _any_ kind – to the body that was still slumped over the table. Rumlow struggled to keep his breathing shallow enough that his chest could be seen heaving. No hiding beneath thick layers of tac gear. If he thought he’d felt exposed before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. The lingerie seemed _inconsequential_ at this point, but the white slash of the Asset across the table was burnt across his vision. The flash of the knife. The calm, docile way he’d walked back to Pierce. Rumlow felt – he didn’t know how he felt. There weren’t _words_ for how messed up he felt. It was like his brain, his heart, had been shoved through a meat grinder and poured messily back into the cavities left behind. Nothing sat right, and everything ached.

 

And yet, the flawless image of the Asset in satin and silk remained, lingering behind Rumlow’s eyelids. He tilted his gaze towards Pierce and wondered how hard _he’d_ been watching. He was smiling widely, making no attempt to hide or even dilute his amusement. For him, Rumlow supposed, the evening had gone exactly as planned. Conversation was slowly picking back up, and it was incredible, really, how quickly the diners were able to blind themselves to the ugliness all around them. It was too long before they were finally finished, and the Asset had been reduced back to just another pretty decoration in the room as they left in dribs and drabs, heading towards what sounded like more drinks. God, Rumlow needed a fucking drink.

 

Pierce left with the guests, bringing up the rear. Once more Rumlow and the Asset were ignored, and Rumlow wondered, horribly, whether they would be expected to follow on with the guests too. But the Asset didn’t move, and Rumlow followed his lead until the servers returned, and they were herded back towards the elevator they’d come up in. Rumlow didn’t realise how much his body had cramped up until he was forced to move again, and everything burned in protest. Rumlow had forgotten how much standing to attention could ache. How long had it even been? There was no clock in the dining room, and it had already been nightfall by the time they’d arrived there. Time had moved strangely, stretch out infinitely in the wait for every agonising scrap of the knife and grate of laughter to pass, but then, sucked into the instant of the knife in the Asset’s grip, and the gurgle of blood. Like nothing existed before or after that instant.

 

Rumlow’s eyes went straight to the Asset the moment they were in the elevator, finally facing him directly. His eyes were scanning for blood. The wound he’d made, even with the blade still lodged in his throat – the splatter had been wide across the table. And yet there was no part of the Asset, from the stockings all the way up to his pale, bare chest, that had been marred by the man’s blood. Rumlow’s gaze travelled back up, and he found the Asset looking straight at him. Rumlow’s heart jumped, and with the furious pace it had been keeping all evening, Rumlow wondered if the shock would kill him long before any weapon the Asset may be hiding would.

 

But the Asset did nothing, and Rumlow’s eyes traced over his face, unable to stray too far from his eyes. It was rare that anyone ever saw him without the mask on. Typically, only when it actually got damaged during a mission – the Asset knew enough to abandon broken gear and prioritise completing the mission over the risk of exposing his face.

 

No one had ever paid it much attention. Beyond maintenance, what attention _did_ you pay a weapon? But Rumlow had no choice then, trapped in the elevator with nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide or divert attention. Nothing but the Asset and the silk and the _death_ in his mind even if he didn’t look. So, he saw everything. The Asset had been clean shaven, just as he had. The silvery sheen over his lips was still intact, as was the care had been taken over his eyelids too. His hair looked soft, and Rumlow wondered if it had been washed especially for that night. Had the technicians done it? Did they know what _mission_ their weapon had been sent on?

 

The Asset’s gaze didn’t waver, and Rumlow was forced to meet his eyes again. His jaw shifted, and Rumlow’s lips parted for him to speak – but the Asset looked away, staring ahead at the closed elevator doors once more. Rumlow’s jaw clenched shut, and his attention snapped forward too, mirroring the Asset.

 

They were back to the small, narrow corridors and rooms soon enough, and Rumlow forgot, for one horrible moment, that he still needed to get changed. As though given only – only what, a few hours? – he could get used to being dressed like a…

 

The thought didn’t finish itself, as they moved into the room with the sofas, and Pierce was standing there. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, almost in the pose that Rumlow and the Asset had both been holding upstairs behind him. Upstairs, where he hadn’t acknowledged their presence, or even looked at them. He was looking now. Rumlow’s eyes were blown wide, and it didn’t even occur to him that it was the man he risked his life for daily that he was suddenly afraid of.

 

“Rumlow,” Pierce nodded at him, and bile lurched in Rumlow’s throat as Pierce’s eyes dragged all the way down his body, taking in every agonising detail, before raking all the way back up again. Pierce was barely smiling, just that polite tilt to his lips that he wore when he had to, but there was something in his eyes. Pierce held his gaze, just a moment more, before directing an amused glance at the Asset. And for that moment, Rumlow wanted to kill Pierce with his own two hands. The realisation hit him hard when it finally filtered through to his brain, and Rumlow had to catch his breath, gaze dropping unseeing to the floor as he was compelled to remind himself, _forcefully_ , of his place in the world.

 

_If it’s for HYDRA, it will be done._

_If it’s for HYDRA, it doesn’t matter if you don’t understand_.

 

He really, really didn’t understand.

 

Pierce stepped towards the Asset and reached to run his thumb across the Asset’s cheek, hooking it at the corner of his mouth to tilt his head to the side. Examining him, like a doll, and the Asset did nothing to stop it. Just stood there, every bit as pretty as a doll, and just as pliant. Pierce tilted the Asset’s head back, pressing his thumb hard against the Asset’s lower lip with a small hum. Rumlow wanted to step in between them, and Pierce looked at him as though he’d spoken out loud. Except there was no anger, or even disapproval or anything like that in his gaze. Rumlow sucked in a sharp breath. Pierce didn’t. He couldn’t expect – didn’t expect them to –

 

“Thank you for you work tonight,” Pierce inclined his head at Rumlow, before sliding his hands in his pockets and walking leisurely out of the room. Rumlow didn’t bother to listen for where he went next, legs wobbling even after he sat down on one of the sofas, hard. The Asset did not join him, although his head seemed to hang a little lower than it had before Pierce had gone. The servers came forward, and _fuck_ , Rumlow had forgotten they were even there. A bag was being pushed against his leg, and Rumlow stared down at it blankly.

 

“Your clothes are in there,” the woman told him, back in her silk robe. “You can change in the same bathroom as before.”

 

Rumlow stared at her, dumbly, before looking at the Asset.

 

“What about – ”

 

“He’s fine,” the woman waved him off, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “His team will be here soon enough to sort him out. Placid fucker when he’s not on a mission, isn’t he?”

 

Rumlow didn’t reply, just stood and head to the bathroom. He pulled his clothes on roughly, sharply, over the top over everything else. He didn’t – he just needed to be out of that house. Had to be far from the whole goddamn evening, at least as far as was geographically possible. Everything felt strange, everything _rubbed_ strangely, but that was the sensation crawling over every inch of his being, and at this point he was pretty sure it had nothing to do with what he was or wasn’t wearing.

 

The Asset was gone by the time Rumlow was out of the bathroom, and he didn’t let himself wonder about pointless shit like whether anyone had changed _his_ clothes before they’d left.

 

It was a fair walk back to his apartment, but Rumlow walked fast, and there seemed to be barely anyone out. He still didn’t know what time it was. He all but jogged when he came up to his building, taking the stairs a few at a time and fucking refusing to go near the elevator. He fumbled with his keys, scrabbled desperately at the door until it finally clicked open, and he could get the fuck inside his apartment. He locked the door behind him, both the keyhole and the slide locks he’d added himself. It wouldn’t make a difference if someone really wanted to get in, his brain reminded him. He’d done it himself, in other cities, in other apartments. The tech they gave the Asset, he didn’t even need to get into the building the get the job done.

 

Fragility still hung over Rumlow like a fine web of cracks all across his skin, and Rumlow found himself peeling off the outer layers of his clothes, dropping them in the untidy piles he’d refused to leave all that time ago in Pierce’s office. He half expected to find nothing but his own boxers beneath, the night a bizarre but ultimately unreal fever dream. But sure enough his pants slide down, and reveal the long length of Rumlow’s legs, encased in their dark stockings. The fine silk hadn’t even snagged or torn, but remained entirely whole and pristine. The panties still sit snug on his hips, and Rumlow absently ran his finger under the lace, straightening it.

 

Fuck. What was he doing.

 

Rumlow’s jaw snapped, and he pushed his way through to his bathroom, ready to strip away all evidence of the night. Fuck it if Pierce or the goddamn tailor wanted the lingerie back, Rumlow was going to _destroy_ them, set fire to it all in a bin, and –

 

Rumlow turned the corner – and saw himself in the mirror. Stumbled forwards until he was grasping the sink, staring at his face, watching his eyes – wide eyes, _messed up_ eyes, eyes that broadcast fucking everything he was feeling, and fuck fuck _fuck_ , he’d forgotten about the _fucking_ makeup. He’d just ran scared from the house, he’d walked all the way home with his face looking like –

 

Rumlow sucked in a shuddering breath, bracing himself against the sink. He didn’t even have anything to take makeup off with. Why would he? He’d never – had no intention of ever –

 

His breathing was coming sharp, and suddenly it wasn’t enough to be holding himself up against the sink; Rumlow sank down to the ground, pressing his back against the shower door, eyes closing. What the hell was he doing? He knew he should strip down and shower. But then he’d be forced to see it all again. Hold the soft fabric balled up in his fists and have to explain to himself why it was suddenly impossible to dispose of it exactly as he’d _just told himself_ he would. He had work tomorrow – fuck, he had _missions_ , he had to see Pierce again, had to work with the _Asset_. How was he supposed to keep on going with his life never acknowledging what had happened?

 

 _Because that was what he did with the rest of his life_ , Rumlow thought tiredly, opening his eyes and looking down at his hands. Black polished winked back at him, and Rumlow thought of the windows that only showed darkness. Drifted his gaze back up to his bathroom mirror, where he’d finally seen his reflection, and not recognised the face there.

 

 _Thought about the Asset and the way the blood had splattered everywhere but on the pale white of his skin, of the lingerie_.

 

Rumlow breathed out. He was hard.

 

_The Asset in white. Pierce’s thumb pressed hard against his lip, peeling his mouth just open enough that he could have pushed that thumb in._

 

_Looking in his mirror and seeing exactly what it was that everyone else had seen that night._

 

Rumlow shuddered, closed his eyes, and slid his fingers beneath the impossibly soft fabric of his panties.

 

~

 

An email had come early the next morning, and Rumlow suddenly had the next three days off, courtesy of Pierce. His team went on missions without him, and he was left in self-imposed house arrest, alternating between staring at the bedroom ceiling, the living room ceiling, and the bathroom ceiling whilst scalding water pounded over him in the shower. The makeup washed away, both the shadowy shit that had been painted around his eyes like smoke, and the dark stuff from his mouth. His scars were revealed in sharp focus once more, marring and breaking up the planes of his body – not the smooth, flawless thing they’d made out of him before.

 

Except there wasn’t as much of a difference as he’d thought there would be.

 

He’d left the nail polish on for far longer than he could justify, lifting his hands and watching them consume the light that came through his windows. They didn’t even have the decency to chip, and suddenly it was the night before he headed back to SHIELD, and Rumlow was scrubbing his fingers raw trying to peel back the colour and reveal the stupid, plain keratin underneath. All the while, Pierce didn’t call, didn’t write. And Rumlow told himself to stop being such a goddamn teenage girl about it.

 

“Good ol’ Cap missed you y’know,” one of his men snarked good-naturedly when Rumlow rolled in the next day, throwing himself back into the group like it was possible to go back to normal. Rumlow’s lips pressed into a thin line. No one knew what had happened – God, they better fucking not know what happened. If Pierced had involved them and not told him, if they all _knew_ and were laughing…

 

They couldn’t know. For Rumlow’s own sanity, _they couldn’t know_.

 

“Yeah?” he replied, trying and failing by a mile to re-enter that easy back and forth, joking at Rogers’ expense on more layers than one as HYDRA agents swarmed around him unseen. “Has he been crying for me every night on the jet?” The words were clumsy, misshapen in his own mouth long before they got out. Most of them didn’t notice, laughing along, but Rumlow felt Rollins come up behind him, gaze concerned.

 

“You alright boss?” he asked, and Rumlow didn’t turn to face him. Felt the shift of smooth skin against rough black cloth, as though the fabric of the tac gear would rub his bare legs raw. His stubble had come back in – the rest of his hair, not so much. Rumlow hefted up a gun, checking it over before strapping it to his waist, turning to head for where Rogers and the Widow were waiting a way away.

 

“Course I am,” Rumlow dismissed Rollins easily, already beginning to walk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

He broke into a little jog, pretending it wasn’t to get away from Rollins.

 

Rogers and the Widow looked up as he arrived, Rogers offering a professional nod. Rumlow stared for a moment, thought of the Asset, and broke into a smirk. “Hey Cap,” he greeted, and this time the words rolled off far more easily. “Heard you missed me whilst I was gone?”

 

Rogers didn’t splutter or turn red, as many accounts of his awkward interactions with Agent Carter claimed he would when faced with innuendo. But he did look embarrassed, and Rumlow assumed he’d already been teased mercilessly on the topic. Rumlow had to wonder just how much Rogers really _had_ missed him. The Widow turned her gaze on him, head tilting as she watched him blatantly, and Rumlow raised his eyebrows at her. _What_?

 

Her own gave a little a little jump as she pointedly looked away, saying plenty with just a tilt of her head. Rumlow stared a moment longer, before turning his gaze back to Rogers. Wondered if his team were debating why he was apparently so engrossed in talking to the outsiders, rather that sticking to what he knew. What they all expected.

 

“I didn’t – not like _that_ ,” Rogers settled on, exasperated, but he didn’t meet Rumlow’s eyes. “You’re a good soldier, and a good Commander. Things always run more smoothly when you’re here.”

 

“I dunno Steve,” the Widow pretended to ponder his words, “sounds like love to me.”

 

Rogers huffed before striding away, fully aware that he wasn’t going to win that conversation. Rumlow gave a ghost of a laugh, smirking faintly. The Widow had a smirk of her own as she headed off after Rogers, adjusting her stingers as she went. He watched them both go, fingers playing lightly over his gun. Rumlow’s coms abruptly buzzed and he frowned, looking back at the others. No one else was on coms yet – they always set up the channel in the jet. He activated it, carefully –

 

“Commander,” Pierce’s voice rippled down the line, and Rumlow’s body seized up. “I wanted to catch you before you went on your mission.” His voice was light, and Rumlow pictured him in his office, staring out of those enormous windows.

 

“Sir,” he replied carefully, voice a low rasp, and Pierce chuckled.

 

“I wanted to thank you again for your assistance the other day.”

 

Rumlow’s fingers tightened over the gun. “All due respect sir, I’m pretty sure I didn’t actually do anything to…help.”

 

“Nonsense,” Pierce’s voice was a warm reassurance, “you were an integral part of events. I’m looking forward to your contributions in the future.”

 

Rumlow’s breathing hitched, and he choked, unable to find air.

 

“Good luck on your mission, Commander,” Pierce said, “although I know you won’t need it.”

 

The line went dead, and Rumlow choked down a painful breath of air. Slowly, he unclenched his hand from the gun, lowering it to his side. He forced one foot in front of the other, pushing himself towards the jet, jaw set as he stared straight ahead.

 

_It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand._

_You obey orders, no matter what those order are._

_It’s for HYDRA._

_It’s_ all  _for HYDRA._

 

Rumlow had a job to do.


End file.
